And yet could it be? Could this weary-looking, listless man with his hands thrust into his light overcoat pocket, with his drooping head, be Yorke with the straight broad shoulders, the figure upright as a dart, the well-poised head, the handsome face with its cheerful devil-may-care look in the bright eyes? Oh, surely not Yorke, not her Yorke as she remembered him in the street at Portmaris, on the beach, beside her on the tower at St. Martin's?
After that one cry she made no sign, but drew back a step so that Lucy could screen her from him if he chanced to look up.
He came towards them like a man walking in a dream, and as he reached their side he raised his head and looked at them. Leslie had hard work to keep the cry that rose in her heart from escaping her lips.
It was Yorke's face; but how changed! How weary and sad and hopeless—and, yes, reckless! There was that in the dark eyes which she, an innocent girl, did not understand; but instinctively a pang went through her heart, and she trembled, she knew not why.
His eyes, with that strange, awful look in them, rested on their faces for a moment, then dropped again and he passed on. He went up the steps of the club, but turned and stood just outside the door, and Leslie, almost sinking with agitation, hurried on.
"What is the matter? Leslie dear, you frighten me!" said Lucy. "Are you ill?"
"No—yes!" said Leslie.
She walked swiftly and yet tremblingly up a side street, and stood there, out of the reach of those eyes, shaking like a leaf.
"You are ill!" said Lucy, catching her arm. "We have walked too far—you are tired. Oh, what is it, dear?"
"Yes, I am tired," said Leslie when she could command her voice. "That is it. We—we must have a cab. Stay! Not here, come farther up the street——."